The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing us in a world of firelight and shadows. The grandeur of the Duke's private chambers was undeniable—the soaring ceiling, the rich tapestries depicting stark northern landscapes, the massive bed with its dark wood and fur throws—but it felt less like a palace and more like a sanctuary. A warrior's den. And he had just invited me into it.
The air was warm, scented with cedar from the blazing hearth and the faint, clean smell of him that was everywhere. My travel-worn trunks looked like humble petitioners in the corner.
Lysander turned to me. In the intimate light, the events of the day were etched on his face—the smudge of mud on his jaw, the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the protective fury that still simmered just beneath the surface. But it was all softened now, banked by the privacy we'd stolen.
"The bath is for you," he said again, his voice a low rasp that seemed to stroke the air between us. He stepped closer, his fingers going to the first buckle on my mud-stained, borrowed coat. "You're cold."
His touch, through the leather, was shockingly intimate. This wasn't the frantic claiming by the hot springs. This was deliberate. A slow unbuckling of armor, both his and mine.
I stood frozen, my heart a wild bird against my ribs, as he worked the buckles with a soldier's efficiency. The heavy coat slid from my shoulders, landing on the stone floor with a soft thud. His eyes never left mine, a silent question in their stormy depths.
He reached for the hem of my tunic next, the one woven with his colors. I caught his wrist, my fingers trembling against the warm, strong pulse there.
"Lysander…" My voice was a breathless whisper. "You don't have to…"
"I know," he interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. He turned his wrist, lacing his fingers through mine. "This isn't duty. This is…" He struggled for the word, the brilliant strategist failing to articulate the simplest of truths. "…debriefing."
A startled laugh escaped me. "Debriefing?"
A corner of his mouth lifted. The faint, rare smile was my undoing. "Assessing the damage. Inventorying the assets." His thumb stroked the back of my hand. "Starting with you."
He released my hand and gently tugged the tunic over my head. The cold air hit my skin, raising goosebumps, but his gaze was a tangible heat, sweeping over the simple linen chemise beneath, the curve of my hips in the riding trousers, the bandage on my arm. His expression was not one of lust, but of profound, aching reverence. He was seeing the woman who had fought beside him, who had bled for him.
"Your turn," I said, my voice gaining strength.
His eyes flicked up to mine, surprised.
Emboldened, I stepped into his space. My fingers, clumsy compared to his, found the clasps of his own black coat. He stood utterly still, his breath catching as I pushed the heavy garment from his broad shoulders. It joined mine on the floor.
I reached for the fastenings of his vambraces, my knuckles brushing against the hard plane of his chest. I could feel the powerful beat of his heart. I unbuckled them, letting the hardened leather fall away. Each piece of armor I removed revealed more of the man beneath—the corded strength of his forearms, the tired slope of his shoulders, the faint, old scars that mapped a lifetime of violence.
This was the ultimate fantasy. Not just the undressing, but the unparalleled intimacy of being allowed to dismantle the defenses of the most guarded man in the kingdom.
When he stood before me in just his trousers and a thin linen shirt, I finally looked up. The vulnerability in his eyes was a gift more precious than any sigil.
Wordlessly, he took my hand and led me to the steaming copper tub. He turned his back, giving me a semblance of privacy, as I shed the rest of my clothes and sank into the gloriously hot, lavender-scented water with a gasp of pure relief. The heat seeped into my bruised muscles, washing away the mud, the fear, the memory of the assassin's blade.
I heard the rustle of fabric. When I dared to look, he had shed his own shirt and was kneeling behind me, his chest bare. The sight stole my breath. The powerful expanse of his back, the defined muscle, and there, crawling over his shoulder blades and down his spine, the faint, shadowy tracery of the black lines—the silent, sleeping beast.
He picked up a sponge, dipped it in the water, and began to wash my back. His touch was methodical, gentle, utterly focused. He was debriefing. Memorizing the terrain of my skin. washing away the day's horrors.
"They thought you were my weakness," he said, his voice a low rumble close to my ear. His breath stirred my wet hair. "They were fools. You are the source of all my strength."
He poured warm water over my shoulders, rinsing the soap away. His hands stilled on my skin.
"Every decision I have made since you walked into my life has been to keep you," he confessed, the words raw and unvarnished. "The contract, the strategy, the performance for the court… it was all a calculation to make you stay. A miser hoarding the only light he's ever seen."
Tears pricked my eyes, mingling with the bathwater. I turned in the tub to face him, the water sloshing around me. I didn't care about my nakedness. I reached up, my wet hand cupping his jaw.
"You never had to calculate, Lysander," I whispered. "You just had to ask."
The last of his control shattered. A low sound, half groan, half prayer, broke from his lips. He leaned down and captured my mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and truth and desperate, yielding need.
It was the kiss that sold a million chapters. The moment the ice melted completely, revealing the fierce, burning heart of the hero. It was the promise of every romance novel cover fulfilled in the steam of a bath tub, in the heart of a frozen fortress, with a man who had finally found the one battle he couldn't win—the battle against his own heart.
And as he lifted me from the water, wrapped me in a soft linen sheet, and carried me to his bed, I knew the readers were cheering. This was the payoff. This was the good stuff. The Cold Duke was finally, irrevocably, warm.